


On Any Given Night, Anything Can Happen

by Telesilla



Series: A Season of Extremely Unlikely Events [1]
Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Baseball, Community: kink_bingo, Future Fic, M/M, San Francisco Giants, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-17 23:35:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/873191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Telesilla/pseuds/Telesilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Brandon Belt is a big fucking hero, Hunter Pence is just along for the ride and Telesilla writes 100% pure id fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Any Given Night, Anything Can Happen

_May 23 & 24, 2014_  
 _AT &T Park_  
 _Los Angeles Dodgers vs San Francisco Giants_

 

Hunter hardly even notices it when Boch pulls Belt aside. They've just left the field and now the home half is coming up. The home half of...Hunter turns to blink at Blanco. 

"Fuck," he says hoarsely. "What inning....?

"Twenty-second...no twenty-third." Blanco looks like Hunter feels, like he hasn't got anything left.

Watching as the Dodgers move out onto the field, Hunter sees the same thing. Oh they're all--Dodgers and Giants--pretending that they're just fine, but honestly? Hunter's pretty sure there's not a player or a trainer or a coach on either team that doesn't want to fall over in a heap and fucking die. Mattingly got thrown out in the thirteenth and Hunter can't help thinking that he's the lucky one. The rest of them? Even those stupid coffee pouches aren't helping; they're all running on fumes and stale bubblegum.

Except maybe....

Frowning, Hunter looks around for Belt. As everyone else started to look like particularly sluggish zombies, Belt stepped up. He's responsible for the last two outs, one of them routine and one of them, not so much. Hunter had been sure that line drive was coming right at him and he'd hoped he'd be able to get it on a hop and hold Gonzalez to a single. Instead, Belt had leapt up like he was fucking LeBron, or maybe Birdman blocking a shot, grabbed the ball and stepped on first like it was no big fucking deal. Like they were still in the third and he had a full tank of gas.

It's not the only time he's saved them. He's scooped countless balls out of the dirt with that motion that sells it to umpires--the long sweep of arm while his foot is, or at least looks like it is, on the bag. At one point back in the seventeenth he sprawled across the dirt and speared a ball that was maybe half an inch above the ground. He'd rolled over on his back holding his glove up and the jerk of the umpire's fist had signaled another inning gone without the Dodgers even getting on base.

Since they went into extras, Belt's chased at least five balls into the stands, throwing himself over the railing and retrieving all three that were reachable. They always joke about the seats up the first base line, say it's full of gamer babes who want Belt to land face first in their laps so they can pat him on the ass, but that third time, Belt had almost face-planted into an empty seat.

He's even gotten on base a couple of times, once coaxing a ten pitch walk that had knocked Dominguez out of the game back in the fifteenth, and then getting a single in a couple innings ago. Hell, he's the reason they're still playing ball at two thirty in the morning in front of about five thousand die-hards who have been allowed down into the good seats. To be fair, Hunter had a part in it too; it was his two out single in the bottom of the ninth that allowed Belt to hit the double that Hunter scored on to tie up the game.

So yeah, it's been all Belt all the time since they went into extras and Hunter's pretty sure he's never seen a gutsier performance from any ball player, amateur or pro. It's hypnotic and, in a weird way, kind of a turn on. People write Belt off a lot, even now. Kruk and Kuip still call him a baby giraffe, even though he's been the everyday first baseman for almost two years. But Hunter's been playing right behind him in right field and batting right in front of him for most of that time and he's watched Belt grow up right before his eyes.

He's also spent a lot of that time watching Belt's ass, but hey, you stand behind a guy with an ass like that for nine half innings every damn day of the season, you'd have to be blind _not_ to stare. Because Hunter's a careful guy who stays away from married, presumably straight teammates, he hasn't done more than stare.

Well that and jerk off thinking about Belt's ass and hands and that incredible fucking mouth of his, but really, he's pretty sure no one's noticed his fascination. Or who knows, he thinks blearily, maybe he's the laughingstock of the clubhouse. They know he's gay, the way ballplayers always know, but they also don't care, which is better than other places he's played. If they laugh at him for ogling Belt, well, that's better than shunning him for being queer.

"The hell?" Perez mutters, interrupting Hunter's train of thought. Hunter follows his gaze down the dugout. Posey's still in his gear and he's heading toward the bullpen and why would he be warming up a reliever when there's a perfectly good bullpen catcher who hasn't been catching for the last twelve innings?

"Holy fuck," Hunter says.

Belt's up in the bullpen.

Hunter had seen that Kickham was utterly spent after pitching his heart out for about six innings, but he hadn't thought about what they'd do next. There's no one left in the bullpen though, and that means a position player is going to have to pitch. Arias is the only one left on the bench and there's no way he can pitch and that means a position player already in the game is going to have to pitch. Belt's a lefty and he pitched back in school and he's still in the game and that means Belt's going to have to pitch.

"Guys," Boch says with a tired wave. Hunter joins the crowd of players around him. "Drag it out as long as you can to give Belt time to warm up."

"Got it," Blanco says, fumbling around for his batting helmet.

Blanco does his thing--calling time after ever other pitch--and fouls off a few pitches before he swings at garbage and how the hell did Rubio throw that? Rubio's clearly gassed but he's digging deep and, Dodger or not, you've got to give the rook some credit. Apparently Abreu didn't really get Boch's memo; he sends the second pitch he sees into center where Puig tracks it down with no problem.

Altuve takes his own sweet time stepping into the box, and Hunter hears the clatter as Posey quickly sheds his gear in time to make it to the on-deck circle. Belt's still out there, throwing to Billy Hayes now and his stuff...his stuff actually looks pretty good. Because Hunter's basically twelve and also because he's really fucking tired, he mentally snickers at using the word "stuff" about Belt. 

After a five pitch at bat, Altuve grounds out to third and the inning is over. As the Dodgers trudge off the field, Hunter sidles over to Romo. "Grab some seeds," he says.

Romo, who went two innings and looks as tired as Hunter's ever seen him, blinks. "Huh?"

"Just grab some damn seeds."

"Right," Romo says, like he suddenly gets it.

"Okay, Belt," Rags says like it's nothing, like he calls Belt out of the bullpen all the time. "You're up."

"Wait," Hunter says once Belt's back in the dugout. He blinks and then bugs his eyes out as much as he can. "One more," he says, slowly clapping his hands. "One more inning...I wanna play one more inning...."

Everyone's got it now, even Altuve's clapping along with them. Fuck, even Boch is circling around behind them as the teams forms a ring around Belt and Hunter. "This is it," Hunter says. "Win this inning. It's all we fucking have left!" And they're all clapping hard and jumping up and down like demented monkeys and Romo's throwing seeds around and under all the noise, Hunter turns to Belt and just looks at him.

It's like the world is suddenly lit by flashbulbs. There are guys clapping--flash--and then there are seeds falling all over the place--flash--and then there's Belt's face--flash-- and then Hunter's right up in Belt's space--flash--and then Hunter is saying, under all the noise. "You're so fucking hot tonight...this...I've never seen anyone do this...if you can...."

And it's pretty much the worse thing to say and the worse time to say it because Jesus H. Christ Belt's got to go out there and pitch and the last thing he needs is Hunter perving on his performance and....

"If I can?" Belt asks as all around them guys grab their gloves. "What'll you do?"

"Whatever you want," Hunter says softly. Belt seems to be waiting for something else, but Hunter just puts his hand on Belt's back. "You've gotta lead us out." And even though Belt's not the starting pitcher, they're all waiting for him to take the field.

Renel's voice echoes through the largely empty park as she says, "Now pitching for San Francisco, Number Nine, Brandon Belt!"

The crowd, such as it is, cheers and there are at least five giraffe hats that Hunter can see as he makes his way out to right.

Because this is, Hunter thinks, that baseball movie--it's every baseball movie ever--of course Belt's facing what's left of the heart of the Dodger order. The score sheets must be shot to hell and the batting order is completely fucked, but still, Ramirez is up first and then, after him, Rubio for some reason, and after him...Puig.

Ramirez has just a little swagger in his step as he makes his way to the box, like he thinks the Giants have run up the white flag and tossed a position player in to take the loss.

 _Fuck you,_ Hunter thinks. He can't see as well as he would if he was in the infield, but he watches as Belt sets, looks over Affeldt's pitching glove and waits for a sign. Ramirez swings at the first pitch, which is pretty stupid, because Belt throws what would have been a ball. The next pitch is a ball and the one after that. And then...Hunter blinks, because he can't really tell from his position but he thinks Belt just shook Posey off. _Seriously?_

Ramirez smacks the next pitch hard, but it's right at Sandoval, who makes a throw to first that Arias barely has to move to catch. Arias holds up a finger.

One away.

This is either Rubio's second or third major league at bat, and he flails twice before suddenly developing patience. _Damnit,_ Hunter thinks. _Keep hacking._ But no, Rubio draws a walk.

As Puig steps up to the plate with all the confidence of a guy who won Rookie of the Year last year, Belt takes a breath so deep Hunter can see his chest move all the way from right. And then he pauses and stares in at Puig for a long time. He shakes Posey off twice, which has to be a mind game, because Hunter's not sure Belt has anything but the wild fastball he's been throwing. The first pitch is a ball. Puig fouls off the second. The third pitch is a strike. Puig fouls off the fourth and takes balls two and three. Posey calls time and walks out to the mound.

As Posey slowly trudges back to the plate after conferring with Belt, Hunter suddenly knows how this is going to go. He can see it stretching out in front of him like one of those musical montages. They will, he knows on some deep level, win this game and this series and the division and the NLDS and the pennant and they'll take the whole fucking thing again. And, just like Matt's perfect game in 2012, everyone will talk about this game and how it was one for the ages.

As Belt sets up, the crowd stands up and starts cheering, willing him to get that last out. Someone starts up the "Beat LA!" chant and Hunter can see Belt standing there, pausing for a moment to take it all in. Then he throws and there's the sharp crack of a bat and Puig hits a scorching line drive right at Crawford. Crawford underhands it to Altuve who throws it to Arias in a picture perfect example of a 6-4-3 double play.

Side retired.

Belt puts his head down and walks off the field but Hunter, who's been watching Belt's body language for a long time now, can tell he's feeling good. When they get to the dugout, Belt finally smiles a small, satisfied smile. The team crowds around him and it might just be a reflection of Hunter's own feelings, but everyone looks more energized.

It's Rubio again; Hunter had guessed it would be when they sent him up to bat last inning. The Dodgers have run through their lineup and apparently they don't have a position player who can pitch. And Rubio, like Kickham for the Giants, is having the game of his career. Hunter just hopes he's done for the night and will finally start making mistakes.

Hunter also hopes himself will stop making mistakes. He's up second in the inning and maybe it makes him a bad baseball player but he really really hopes this is his last at bat. He's stiff as fuck and his focus is shot all to hell. As he stands at the bat rack he pauses, staring at his bats. He's been using Ascot all night, but now he reaches for Tiffany. It's the only bat he's named for an accomplishment and he thinks of his jewelry box back home and how he just _knows_ there'll be another ring in there come the beginning of next season.

Tiffany it is.

"Okay," Posey says, pulling on his batting gloves. "Let's do this thing."

It's not the kind of thing Posey usually says, but this isn't a usual game. 

"Hey," Belt says very quietly from behind Hunter. "You think I'm hot?"

"Always. And tonight...times ten. I don't know how you're doing it."

"Huh." Belt pauses. "'Kay. We finish this up here, this inning, you get to fuck me."

"And if we don't?" Hunter says, his mouth on automatic because his brain is too busy thinking _oh hell yeah!_

"You buy me dinner." Before Hunter can say anything Posey's heading out of the dugout. Belt pats Hunter on the ass. "Get out there."

Posey steps in and Hunter starts his own routine--working on his golf game, as Crawford puts it. He keeps an eye on Rubio as he does and yeah, Rubio is starting to leave it up. Posey takes a couple and then slaps a line drive up the middle. He's never been a fast runner and there's no way he's going to be able to coax a double out of it. 

But he's on base for Hunter and all thoughts of fucking Belt leave Hunter's mind. All Hunter can think when he steps in is _don't ground into a double play...don't ground into a double play._

Hunter's exhausted, but all of a sudden, he's sharp. This, he thinks, is what Belt's been feeling; they've reached the point where you're so tired you can only concentrate on one thing at a time. And right now, Hunter's focused on one thing. The ball.

The first pitch is a ball but only barely. Normally, Hunter would have taken a hack at it, but it's not worth the effort. Neither is the second one or the third. The fourth pitch, on the other hand, seems to come in in slow motion and Hunter sends it right back up the middle. It's only a single; with Posey in front of him Pence can't stretch it out to a double. Even if he thought he could, he wouldn't. The last thing he needs is to be thrown out running the bases.

Not that it matters, because Belt is up and right now, Belt's even more dialed in that Hunter is. Rubio, clearly, is not. Belt's always had a good eye and as he takes the third ball, Hunter's suddenly sure they're going to walk him. _C'mon...c'mon...._ Hunter thinks, not sure if he's begging Rubio to throw something Belt can hit or encouraging Belt to swing at the next pitch.

He watches Belt wait, watches that tension that every hitter recognizes, that moment when it's you and the guy on the mound and nothing else matters but what's happening right here, right now. The crowd is even louder than before--it's hard to believe that they can make that much noise--but Hunter knows Brandon doesn't hear it.

And because it's every baseball movie ever, because Hunter knew it had to end this way, Rubio throws a big fat pitch right where Belt likes them. Hunter and Posey were already running, but Hunter catches a glance of Belt and yeah, there's that big powerful swing, the one that makes you wonder why anyone ever thought Belt was awkward.

It's a no doubter right off the bat, but Belt puts his head down and runs for first; he's been caught more than once watching balls that don't end up leaving the park. This one? This one is gooooone, outta here, adios pelota, right over the the stands in right. The only real question is whether or not it's going into the water. As Belt rounds first, the foghorn blares and then the scoreboard plays the splash hit graphic and Belt slows down, raises his fist in the air and lopes his way around rest of the bases.

The mob at home plate, the gatorade shower, Belt's interview with Kruk and Kuip, the fans partying like it's the end of October...all of it passes in a blur. It's the flashbulb effect again; later Hunter can't quite remember how he went from his uniform to the showers to street clothes to standing in the parking lot, scooter in hand.

"Need a lift?"

Because this is now every baseball porno ever, it's Belt.

"You okay to drive?"

"Better than you are to ride that thing."

"Yeah, probably."

Hunter climbs into the cab of Belt's truck and leans his head back against the head, too tired to even feel weird about his earlier promise. He remembers why he made it though. "How'd you do that?"

"Had to."

"Hey, this is me, not the press."

"Dunno what else to say," Belt says. There's something about his voice...Hunter looks over and Belt's hands are shaking just a little on the steering wheel. "I just...."

If they weren't five minutes away from Hunter's building, Hunter would make Belt pull over. As it is, Belt makes it and even finds a parking space.

His luck, along with his energy, seems to leave him at that point, he just sits, staring out the windshield as Hunter gets out of the truck. "C'mon," Hunter says, once he's standing next to driver's side door. "You're coming up with me," he says firmly.

Belt just looks at him. Shaking his head, Hunter opens the door and reaches around the steering wheel. Once he has Belt's keys, he undoes Belt's seatbelt and then takes Belt's hand. Belt lets him lead him away from the car and then into the building. "I should," he finally says as they get into the elevator.

"You should come with me."

It helps that Hunter knows Belt's wife is in Texas, but even if she weren't he'd still be doing this. In fact, once he's bullied Belt into his apartment and onto the sofa, he says, "get your phone out and call Haylee."

It might ruin his chances with Belt, but Hunter knows Haylee will be up and he wants to remind Belt that he's married just in case Belt wants to change his mind. It's not that easy though, Belt gets his phone out but then he just stares at it blankly.

"Gimme that."

This is one of the weirder situation Hunter's been in and it doesn't help that he's almost as exhausted as Belt. But at least he's coherent, so he takes the phone out of Belt's hand. Finding Haylee's number is easy enough.

"Hi babe," she say and yeah, Hunter was right, she's awake. "That was...."

"Wait up," Hunter says. "It's Hunter...Pence?"

"Is Brandon okay?"

"He's completely wiped. I don't even think he can drive over to your place."

"You've got him?"

Hunter winces at her phrasing. "Yeah, we're at my place. I was going to get him settled in the guest room. No practice tomorrow, so I'll let him sleep in as long as he can."

"You're such a sweetie. You just take care of him for me." Haylee pauses then and when she speaks, Hunter can tell she's smiling. "However you want to."

Hunter's left staring at the phone. "She told me to take care of you," he says. "And, I quote "however you want to." Does she mean what I think she does?"

"Yeah. She's cool that way," Belt says, his voice rough and slurred.

"Yeah well, now's not the time for it."

"You promised." And wow, Belt sounds like a five year old who's up way past his bedtime.

"I did. And I will." Hunter takes Belt's hand again and tugs. "But right now, you're coming to bed with me. We're going to sleep in for forever and when we get up?"

"Yeah."

"I'm going to fuck you all afternoon."

"You sure about that?"

"Hey, I'm good. You did the heavy lifting tonight; I'll do it tomorrow."

"Mmmmm'kay."

Hunter tugs on Belt's hand and finally gets him up off the sofa. Belt's...Brandon's hand is warm in Hunter's grip and Hunter looks down at it, remembering the crazy fast balls Brandon tossed and that splash hit Brandon got.

All in the twenty-fourth inning.

"Best. Performance. Ever." Hunter says, and leads Brandon off to bed.

 _-end_

        R  H  E  
LAD  2 10 2  
SFG  5  9  1  


 **W:** Belt (1-0) **L:** (Rubio 1-1)

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously guys, this is totally and utterly ridiculous and self-indulgent in a way I hope every Giants fan will understand. I'd already planned to write this for the Endurance square of my Kink Bingo card, but after the 10-2 loss to the Dodgers on 07-05-2013 I really needed to go to a happy place. And apparently, my happy place is a 24 inning game in which Brandon Belt is the hero.
> 
> It has been said that, should a position player ever need to pitch, it would be Belt, so there's a tiny kernel of truth buried in all the id fic. I gave the Giants Altuve, because why not, and made up a reliever for the Dodgers because why not. Thanks, as usual to Darkrose--thank all the Baseball Gods that tonight's dinner out was a celebratory dinner rather than a not so celebratory dinner.
> 
> Also, I tried to do a 24 inning box score, but AO3 won't take the html for a table and I simply could not do something that looked right because I would have had to hard code a bunch of spaces. So if you care, the Giants scored 1 in the 3rd, 1 in the 9th and 3 in the 24th. The Dodgers scored 1 in the 5th and 1 in the 8th.


End file.
